I have seen more naked dudes in the Lounge today than I have seen in my whole life.

One time my incredibly paranoid friend--"Dave," we'll call him--paid me a hundred bucks and a dime of weed to hide out in the closet of his fiancee's apartment--the closet had those flaps in the door that resemble window shades if you ever want to peek into (or out of) them--to see what her bachelorette party entailed re: well-endowed and -sculpted police impersonators (slash any other gimmicks male strippers use to thinly masquerade their actual profession from the outset).

The girls did order pizza, but the delivery guy, despite being a beefcake, was just a delivery guy as it turned out. After about three hours and some change, by 0100H, I realized that all they were going to do was get hammered on canned champagne (one of the more daring girls who I knew as a really straight-laced conservative girl even shotgunned a few. lol.) and watch Pretty Woman, I decided that there was really no point in staying. So I snuck out at circa 0100H and walked the few blocks back to my friend's house to inform him of the good news re: absence of well-endowed and -sculpted police impersonators. He was not answering his cell phone and he didn't text, so I pretty much had to do this. When I got there, their door was unlocked. Thinking that a friend was welcome into their home on the night of the bachelor party, I sauntered in to see six of my good friends drinking Wild Turkey and playing strip poker. Dave was passed out on the floor in a pool of dust bunnies, spilled weed (he had a thing for weed), and 101-proof bourbon. Judging by the amount of clothes he was wearing (zero unless you count the cute little dunce cap-shaped party cone on his four hours' prior well-combed mat of hair), he had not fared well in this particular game of strip poker.

But further, one of the guys, a wicked smart computer engineer from a suburb of Chicago, happened to--at the exact moment I walked in--play a hand that he perhaps would have preferred to have had a few more aces, because as I entered the room, he was in the process of removing his boxer briefs, and stopped instantly as soon as he saw me. So the scene is: one naked guy passed out on the floor, four dudes at varying stages of partial nudity playing a male v. male v. male v. male v. male v. male strip poker, and one summa cum laude computer engineer with his underwear covering his groin hammer only because he started pulling them down from behind (basically, his ass is showing, and he is mooning the photographs of Dave's parents behind him because he does not want to continue pulling them down with me standing in the doorway), all five of the conscious players looking at me in various forms of guilt or shame.

But, at the same time, they happened to be watching the movie that you generally think of when you think of bachelor parties: The Piano. Serendipitously, what was on television at that time happened to be the scene where Harvey Keitel is displaying his somewhat shadowed mancannon as he polishes the piano with his clothes.

In essence, there were two and a half naked dudes with anatomical features staring either at me or in my line of peripheral vision. Today in the Lounge I have seen more than that. I am not complaining one bit or threatening to tell Meta on any of you. I am just noting it.